


Spellbound

by dinsoku



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, M/M, Magic, Mentions of FrUK Possible, Mind Games, Power Dynamics, RusEng Endgame, Slow Burn, Smut Will Probably Happen Quicker Than I Think It Will To Be Honest, Suspicion, Telepathy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-10 18:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17431094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinsoku/pseuds/dinsoku
Summary: REWRITTEN VERSION. When a spell backfires on England, it has a rather unsavoury side-effect: his mind starts to receive the thoughts and feelings of a certain...intimidating nation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, readers! The original version of this story goes back about two years before I started to dedicate myself to writing nearly every day. It had two chapters before I promptly abandoned it because I'm a terrible, terrible, lazy person, but the idea (and ship) still niggled at my head all the while. I started seriously considering the story again recently and, after reading the original, realised that I would enjoy the challenge of rewriting it entirely before I felt comfortable adding to it again!
> 
> I still have the original version up, since I felt sentimental, but still wanted to start fresh. Welcome new readers and if you're a returning reader I hope that you'll enjoy the rewritten version far better, or at the very least agree that it's an improvement! I've fixed a lot of plot holes, issues with pacing, and characterisation problems. I liked a lot of the dialogue and character interactions/ideas in the original and I hope to incorporate some bits and pieces into this version. So, anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed rewriting it!!
> 
> WARNING: There is some vomit and swearing in this chapter, in case anyone is squeamish about that!

Preparation was always key.

It was a mantra that England recounted every time he wandered down into the cellar, passed boxes of long-forgotten, unsorted rubbish, to the tucked away room he used whenever the urge to practice magic hit him. Granted, his hobby had become a less regular one over the years and he was rusty—but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The match started in about an hour and a half and that gave him plenty of time. England versus Sweden. Whoever won made it into the semi-finals and from there, well…the prospect of winning the World Cup was less of a pipe-dream and more of a possibility.

He wasn’t a cheater, either! He needed this! Okay, so _technically_ he was sort of cheating, but he deserved a win for once, all right? His boys had only barely clawed themselves out from the last match by the skin of their teeth, narrowing it down to nail-biting penalties, and he had reservations about their chances for the next one. England practically invented the sport itself and here he was, thirty-odd years since coming first, with nothing to show for it. But this time, he had a _chance._ Football was coming home if he had anything to say about it!

No one would get wise to a bit of magical trickery, anyway. It was a silly, little spell to increase his odds. Nothing too bad about that, right?

Right.

England spent a good amount of time sorting through his collection of old, musty tomes until he found the particular spell he needed. Granting his boys the ability to know the Swedish team’s strategy ahead of time? That sounded perfect. Vague, but perfect.

Gathering ingredients together was the next step. It didn’t require much, but the items the spell required were rather specific: three objects representing each group of people involved. There was himself—that would be an easy one—then Sweden, and then the host country, which was Russia. Kneeling down to scratch an elaborate circle into the stone floor with a bit of chalk, England started to feel the weight of the time-crunch and hastily searched the rest of his cottage for something from each respective place.

The only object he had on hand for Russia was a pair of socks the man had knitted and sent him for Christmas about twenty years ago. There was a problem, though. Using a more sentimental, personal object was a risk. The energy concealed inside it, even if it was a gift forgotten by the sender, could either throw the spell off-kilter, form a strong base for it to work off of, or have absolutely no effect at all. Magic was fickle like that.

With ten minutes to spare before the match began, it was a gamble he was all-too-willing to take as he gathered the worn, weathered spell book into his hands. The incantation tumbled from his tongue easily enough, despite it being an old variant of his language. With each word, the air around him grew tense—heavy, even. Energy darted through every nook and cranny of the room like electricity; causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end.

Something was off. England felt it barreling down toward him before anything visually clued him in. The tension in the air spiked and the unexpectedness of it caused him to halt the incantation which, really, was just another mistake to add to a now-extensive list surrounding the whole endeavour.

An arch of bright, twisting, tangling tendrils shot out from the centre circle and homed right for him. England had no time to react. One second he was gaping like a confounded fish, and the other he was halfway across the room; back slamming into the hard, stone wall of the cellar. He slid to the ground with a weak wheeze, breathless. Something akin to electricity raced along his body with no small amount of eagerness. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and strangled all at once.

It took several minutes for the assault to wear off and the energy to leave him sapped and drained. In its wake, it graced him with a lovely splitting headache and trembling spell that refused to let up any time soon.

Well. England supposed there was no stronger example of instant karma than that.

 

***

 

Before the World Cup had come to a close, he had made sure to hand his spell book over to Wales temporarily, to minimise the chances of him being tempted again until the season was over and done with. It was doubtful that he _would_ be tempted, after that glorious disaster, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Another spell backfire like that and he would wake up with an arm missing…or worse. Honestly, he didn’t want to think about it too much. He counted himself lucky he got off with a jolt and a headache and not much else.

Of course, England neglected to inform him of the real reason why he handed it over. He had spun something up about not having a lot of storage room back at his cottage and that he would pick them back up later after he sorted through some rubbish. It wasn’t unbelievable. He did have the tendency of holding onto old, sentimental things, whether they were of extensive monetary value or not. Wales was none-the-wiser, especially considering he slipped it in with a load of other books to make it less obvious that _that,_ specifically, was what he wanted gone.

Eventually, though, football season came and went and—surprise, surprise—he lost. To Croatia. In the semi-finals. Really, ultimately, England should have been proud for getting that far at all, but he ranted and raved and threw objects around without any care or forethought to his actions with passionately-fuelled anger backing him.

After replacing his telly, he sulked for days. He got over it eventually. Sort of.

The nation meeting after the World Cup had been a disaster and reawakened his soreness over losing all over again. Of course, the first thing France brought up was football and he _anguished_ over how _sad_ he was that they couldn’t’ve had a proper match one-on-one to rekindle that old rivalry he was so _nostalgic_ for and— _fuck off, France._

It didn’t help that he felt off as well. His thoughts and emotions were all over the place; tangled and confused. He blamed it on the stress of the meeting, but with it refusing to leave, even after a few glasses of wine, he was starting to wonder if he was getting ill.

Needless to say, he was in a sour mood. Croatia got a lot of unprompted, icy glares sent his way when his back was turned. It was bad. It was petty. And, really, France deserved it more for lording the loss over him so much…and gloating about his win. Arsehole.

Apparently, England wasn’t _quite_ as subtle as he thought he had been being, because Croatia approached him at some point during the lunch break to congratulate him on a tough match. He had expected some sort of confrontation, but the amiable gesture took him by surprise. Well, lovely. Now _he_ felt like a twat. Was he really going to be a prickly little prick over something as nothing as an _international football competition?_

“Oh, yeah, well—you too,” he fingered the wine glass in his hand awkwardly while flashing the other nation a polite smile, “You sure gave my boys the runaround, they all started to fall apart near the end, there.”

“Yeah,” a little exhale of breath that was quite _obviously_ a withheld laugh passed Croatia’s lips, “Still, you put up a good fight.” He extended a hand, presumably for him to shake.

Well, don’t agree so _readily!_ He stared at the proffered open palm; attempting to ward off the urge to slap it away and tell him to shove a football right up his arse and _see how he liked it—_

England let out a hard breath. Honestly, he didn’t know where this unbidden competitive aggression was coming from, but he really needed to rein it in. It was _not_ that big a deal. He was proud of how far his team managed to go and if anyone disagreed, they could fuck right off. There was always the next one in ‘22. Giving Croatia a firm, solid shake, he thanked him before his headache intensified, full-force, all of the sudden. He excused himself rather promptly after that.

He burst into the men’s toilets which were thankfully empty and locked himself in one of the stalls. Sitting down, he furiously worked his fingers at his temples in rapid circles. It did little to stave off the pain that kept driving itself into his head and, honest to God, he was getting more frustrated and miserable by the second.

 _“Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off—”_ Fingers tugging needlessly at his messy mop of hair, England gritted his teeth. If he was getting ill, it couldn’t mean anything good. He would have to phone up his brothers and see how they were faring because this was getting ridiculous—

Oh, _God._ The pain spiked and became unbearable. His stomach lurched and bile pooled at the back of his throat. His sense of resolve was momentarily tossed out the window as he slid to the floor, whipped around, and retched into the toilet until he was left weak, shaky, and empty.

There went that glass of perfectly-decent wine. England clutched the porcelain rim with bone-white, trembling fingers as his cheek met the soothing coolness of it. Parliament was certainly getting a good talking to for whatever the Hell was going on and if he found out some knobhead cocked something up and caused a massive, bloody mess—political or otherwise—that someone was getting made redundant. He gave the stall wall a harsh frown as if to properly cement that statement—no, promise.

The sound of whispers drew just at the edge of his hearing and his shoulders tensed instinctively. England tried to remain quiet; easing his breaths. If he was to be found in this state he could only imagine the amount of teasing that would follow. The noise only skirted around becoming comprehensible, even as it grew louder, closer still. His grip on the toilet tightened as sweat beaded down his brow.

It was right outside his stall, whatever or whoever was making such an unnerving noise. His heart stampeded in his chest as he eyed the door warily until he couldn’t handle the tension building anymore.

“Leave me alone! Fuck off!” The yell tore itself past his throat, shrill and louder than he meant it, but it only echoed around the tiled restroom walls. The resulting silence only made him even more uncomfortable.

At that moment, the door to the toilets burst open and laughter flooded the room. England practically jumped out of his skin. His stomach lurched again and he swallowed hard; putting all his effort into not being sick.

It seemed like ages had ticked by until the door slammed shut and he was left alone in his stall. It took longer still until England felt like he could stand and walk on steady legs. Shambling his way over to the row of sinks, he leaned down and washed the taste of sick out of his mouth. Straightening up, he blinked back at himself in the mirror. God, he looked like utter, utter shite. He wouldn’t hesitate to skip the rest of the lunch break and the rest of the meeting itself to have a lie down in his hotel room, but his presentation was scheduled for the second half. Of course. He couldn’t easily wriggle his way out of that.

England made his way back to the conference room after spending some time at the mirror to put effort into looking less dead-man-walking. His headache had only eased up a tad, enough to keep him from losing whatever was left of his stomach’s contents, at least. Everyone’s chit-chatting seemed far more grating and invasive than usual and he stuck to an empty corner like his life depended on it.

That was, until the meeting kicked back into swing. Presentation after presentation, all so very dull and dreary, crawled along at a snail’s pace. A sigh built in his throat. All he wanted was to get his over and done with so he could slip out while no one was paying him any mind. Finally, it was his turn. England prattled on about possibly the most boring subject imaginable, reading off his notes basically the entire time, but it was only fair since he had to sit through their God-awful presentations. It was their turn, now. Time to relish in it.

He was a miserable bastard today, wasn’t he? Well, he was always a miserable bastard when he was poorly. Usually, he would whinge and whine the ear off anyone who stopped to listen, but he was feeling so rubbish that he didn’t want to talk to anyone. So, he supposed that meant his miserableness manifested itself in actively hating every living, breathing person in the room before him. Even if th—

Who was talking? Someone was having a _chat_ during his presentation. After he had agonised through every single one of theirs whilst sporting the world’s worst migraine? Oh, no, that was _not on._ Initially, he pretended not to hear it, to give the arsehole a chance to clam up and pay attention. But, no. The cheeky little fucker wouldn’t stop _whispering._ Irritation swelled through him in growing leaps and bounds as he simply did not have the patience. Not today.

He shot all of them the most venomous glare he could muster, “I’m sorry, but I sat through all of your dreadful presentations without saying a word, so the least you could do is show me the same fucking courtesy.”

The gathered group of nations before him only responded with a resounding silence. All eyes were on him which was—well, yeah—he was giving a presentation, as they should be! But there was something tense about their looks that left him uneasy. England turned to carry on rambling about whatever nonsense he had in his notes when a voice piped up.

“Hey, uh—you feeling okay?”

He paused and spared a glance over his shoulder. America had rolled his seat away from the table, poised like he was about to stand up, with a rather convincing look of concern written on his face as well.

“I’m fine,” England snapped, scrutinising him as he wasn’t entirely convinced the other man wasn’t the source of the whispering itself, “You know, basic respect—manners. That sort of thing.”

“Ah— _Amérique_ is right, you don’t look well and you keep stumbling over your words…”

“I haven’t b—” He hadn’t been stumbling over his words at all! Oh, this was some elaborate prank again, wasn’t it? Let’s all laugh and point and make England feel like he was going mental! His anger hit him full-force now; eyes darting suspiciously between the two of them. Granted, he probably did look under the weather with his headache refusing to let up, but there was no way he was going to allow them make a scene and embarrass him.

“England, if you want, we can schedule the rest of your presentation for tom—” Germany’s carefully-placed words were interrupted before he could even think about finishing that thought.

“I said I’m fine!” England snarled and turned back to the presentation screen before anyone could try to dissuade him further, “I am _fine,_ fucking Hell—” It was muttered under his breath as he lifted a hand to rub at his temple. His eyes skirted over his notes to find his place again.

He finished his presentation with no more interruptions, thank God. Plopping back into his chair, he watched the rest of the speakers with a barely-concealed lack of interest, trying to ward off his headache until the meeting was adjourned. After he packed up his things and left the conference room, America and France were both waiting to intercept him. England stopped. He held his briefcase close, utilising it as a makeshift shield, as he narrowed his eyes at them.

“We are only here to make sure you get to your hotel room safely, _mon ami,”_ France explained smoothly, stepping forward first, hands out in a calming gesture. America nodded the affirmative; hard, blue eyes glancing him up and down.

“‘Safely’?” England scoffed. It was true that all he wanted to do was go back to his hotel room and sleep, but now that France had suggested it, the prospect became far less appealing. In fact, he felt like he could keep calm, carry on, and go get a coffee, first— “I can show myself to my own room, thanks.”

The other nation’s expression lost all its charm and he glanced back at America. There was an exchanged, knowing look and, not a second later, the both of them had grabbed his arms and pulled him forward. His lips slackened in shock. England ranted and raved and ordered them to _release him now._ When words made no dent in their momentum, they got a good two feet before the fight was on, so to speak. He landed a firm kick square into France’s groin and his one arm was released; a flurry of French curses cementing his victory.

America was harder to ward off, though, and his hold on him only tightened without the other nation’s support. He tried to unravel the iron grip on arm before he was jostled enough to leave his head spinning. Firm words tumbled from the other man’s lips that, when they hit him, brought him pause:

“Listen, dude, either you let us escort you to your hotel room like normal people or I’m carrying you there.”

His eyes darted from his intense, imploring look to France, still crippled over with his hands between his legs, cursing to himself and throwing him the occasional dirty look. Heh, he wished he had his phone handy.

But, really, he had no doubt that America would carry out the threat if he gave him no other choice. He was still clueless as to what sort of prank they were trying to pull here, but the last thing he wanted to do was be carried through the hotel over another man’s shoulder—or worse, bridal style. He shuddered at the thought. He let his hand fall back to his side and the grip on his arm immediately slackened. Rubbing at the sore spot once it was freed, England grabbed his briefcase from the floor and dusted himself off.

The journey up to his hotel room was a quiet one. He kept giving them suspicious glares all the while, any time they glanced back to check on him. They stuck with the worried looks from earlier; keeping true to whatever plot they were trying to pull over on him. The tension in the air could be carved with a knife by the time they reached the door to his room.

“This is me. Go on, then,” England waved them off as he shuffled through his pockets to find his key card. They hung around while he went through the unlocking process, of course. His attempt to slam the door shut behind him was foiled by America’s quick foot. That must have hurt. 

A desperately irritated sigh built in his throat, “Why won’t the both of you _leave me be?”_

“You are acting like a child,” France huffed as he slipped his way past America and lifted a hand to feel at his forehead, “I know it is in your nature to be a stubborn ass, but spare your concerned friends at least a second from it.”

England winced instinctively at the touch. His head was still hurting him, although he had a momentary reprieve thanks to the adrenaline-fuelled confrontation downstairs. He gave the hand a glare, but refrained from batting it away when it pressed lightly against his skin. Fucking Hell, they were insistent. “It’s only a headache. Probably economic or something. I’ve still got to phone up Parliament about it. Like I said, I’m _fine.”_

France pulled his hand away and pursed his lips, “You don’t feel warm.”

“I told you, dude, he’s losing it.”

He gritted his teeth. Was anyone _listening_ to him at all? It was a good thing he kept mum about being sick in the men’s toilets, otherwise they would never leave him be. “Could one of you _please_ explain why you’re both acting like I’m about to keel over?” England asked, his voice low and patience clearly running out, “Or, at least, carry out whatever plot you’ve got going so it’s over and done with and I can sleep?”

They shared a glance with each other before France caught his upper arm and pulled him aside. “Arthur,” he urged, voice low and drawn out so America wouldn’t feel as tempted to interrupt, “We’re not plotting anything. During your presentation, you kept—not making sense. Mixing words up. Not too badly, but noticeable. You snapped at someone for talking.” He paused and rubbed his thumb along his arm in a soothing gesture. “No one had said anything, _mon cher.”_

England refused to respond to all this new information; avoiding his gaze at first. He had known the other man long enough to discern between feigned and genuine concern. An uncomfortable feeling nestled its way into his chest. If that was all true, he can’t begin to imagine what a mad bastard he must have looked.

A soft sigh brushed past his ear. “It is probably economic like you said and it will pass, as these things usually do. Please, don’t strain yourself too much, _oui?_ Call or text if you feel worse. Either I or _Amérique_ will come check on you in the morning.”

What could he say, really? England simply nodded. At this point, he just wanted to be left alone and nurse his headache. America leaned forward and gave him a hard smack on his back and a “get well soon, man” before the both of them saw themselves out.

He was sure they were exaggerating to some extent. It was hardly the best presentation he had given, certainly one of the poorer ones. Maybe he messed up here and there, who cared! The reality over the whispering did give him some pause, though. It wasn’t something easily explainable. Scratching at the side of his face, England went about shuffling through his luggage, searching for pain killers. Hopefully, it would do something about the constant pounding of his head before he had an early—quite early, it wasn’t even half-past six yet—night in.

Sleep evaded him. His headache saw to that. After about two hours of tossing and turning, though, he managed to slip into something light and fitful.

 

***

 

The next morning, England woke to the sound of rapid knocking at his door as he was unceremoniously ripped from the fog of sleep. A pitiful groan wrestled itself from deep in his throat as he attempted to curl further into the puffy duvet and block out the noise.

 _“Angleterre? Bonjour, mon cher,_ wake! Let me know you still live in there!”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, what did France want _now?_ Oh…right. The rather miserable series of events from yesterday rolled back into the forefront of his mind. A frown sprouted across his face. Thankfully, his headache seemed less potent this morning. It was still there, though; flitting about the edges of his consciousness, just enough that it couldn’t be forgotten so easily.

Through the fabric of the duvet, he heard something akin to threatening to go get America to kick down the door if he had to, and he let out a hiss of annoyance. Fucking Hell, couldn’t he have a moment?

“God, Francis, would you shut it?!”

A chuckle rang out from behind the door and England grumbled into the mattress. “He lives! What a shame, I was starting to get excited.”

“I was starting to get excited I was getting a moment’s peace!” He snarled, reached down, and tossed one of his shoes at the door, only for it to miss and knock over a lamp with a loud but questionably fragile-sounding _clink!_ Bollocks.

While France was busy asking him what damage he had done to the hotel _this_ time, he slid out from under the duvet and slipped into some decent clothes. By the time he pulled the door open to meet the other man’s stupid, smug face, England was sure he looked as much of a knackered mess as he felt.

Of course, that didn’t get past France. “Oh, England, you look terrible,” that cheeky smirk was back, full-force, as he dipped his head to one side, “You must be feeling much better then, _non?”_

The look he shot him was so far past unamused he felt he was worthy some sort of award for it. It was true. He was a bit better, headache-wise. He still felt off and muddled, but the pain had lessened, at least. “Still got a headache, but it’s not quite as bad as it was yesterday,” England admitted, deciding to ignore the jab for now. Really, he wanted to get rid of the whole nagging thing France had going on—he would rather have a France that pushed his buttons than one that fretted over him.

That did seem to lessen the other man’s frustrating mothering mood and they chatted back and forth for a bit while England slipped on his shoes and suit jacket. France mentioned that he owed him massively now that he nearly kicked his bollocks off yesterday and he retorted that was absolute bullshit because he had had it coming. It exploded into a heated argument until the two of them came to the agreement that England would buy him a proper coffee this morning. Apparently, the hotel’s espresso wasn’t up to _his_ standards. Really, he only agreed to get him to shut up about it. Coffee was a price he was willing to pay.

So there they were, sat in a quaint little café, while France endlessly went on and on about gossip and fashion and other nonsense he had very little interest in. The nation across from him had curled into his chair like a relaxed cat; posture confident, yet at ease. He nattered on endlessly, but spared him a brief moment when he paused to sip from his espresso.

As a bit of spectacular contrast, England was hunched over his own coffee, a permanent frown on his lips, as he gave the occasional affirmative to pretend he was listening while he tried to ward off his headache by sheer will alone. He had taken pain killers before they left, but it hadn’t done him much good.

Ringing Parliament should be on his list of priorities before the meeting today. Some human bloke, specialist, was coming in to talk about oil reserves if he recalled correctly—that should quiet America for at least an hour or so.

A laugh bubbled up from his lips. It took him by surprise, because he hadn’t really found his train of thought to be all that amusing, but there he was warding off a sticky smile, anyway. France narrowed his eyes at him. “What’s so amusing to you?” An indignant sniff followed, “Are you even listening, _rosbif?”_

His eyes flicked up to scrutinise the other man for a second. That was admittedly…odd and out of nowhere, but changing the subject was easy enough. “You don’t need more than one person to have a conversation, frog,” England crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, “What do I care who Spain is shagging this week? Let alone what bloody shoes he’s wearing while he does it…”

France cradled his chin in his hand while he shook his head in an action that only he could manage to make condescending. _“Angleterre,_ sometimes you really have no vision outside your own little bubble.”

He huffed into the rim of his cup, “More like I have a firm grasp on what is and isn’t my business.”

“I’ve known you long enough, don’t lie to me,” his eyes sparkled as a smirk twisted at his lips, leaning forward across the round bistro table to squint at him, “You’ve always had a mischievous spark to you.”

His eyes rolled slowly from his cup to the other man’s smug face, his own expression purposely dull and deadpan, “Not lying, but carry on believing that, if you must.”

A light chuckle followed France falling back into his chair; grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s all right, _mon ami._ I will keep telling you these things and you can keep pretending not to listen.”

“Oh, _spare me,_ would you?”

As he suspected, France did no such thing.

 

***

 

After they had finished their coffee, the conference was in full swing. His headache persisted all the while and the whispering from before still danced at the edge of his hearing, a bit bolder today. He kept it to himself, this time, since it honestly started to worry him. It was still indecipherable, muffled, and there was no clue as to _who_ or _what_ was causing it. He had picked up the habit of flicking his hand past his ear like he was waving away a buzzing insect. Every time England caught himself doing it, he promptly tangled his fingers into the fabric of his trousers, ears red with embarrassment.

It was entirely likely that he was going mad.

Or he was ill. That seemed the more likely scenario, although he hadn’t been so out of it that he started hearing things—not for a good, long while. He had plenty of sleep, he had no fever, he wasn’t gravely injured and losing blood, a ghost or spirit was unlikely in a newer building like this one—and there had been no longer signs of paranormal activity, either. No cold spots or shadows or anything like that.

He had a persistent headache, though, and that _off_ feeling continued to follow after him. It was that sort of vaguely uncomfortable, weakened feeling, the one that usually signalled the start of a cold or flu. Other than that, though…

All the evidence stacking up was starting to make the whole _going-absolutely-bonkers_ prospect a frightening possibility. Less possible than him being ill, but _possible._ Regardless as to what it was, he wasn’t going to say a fucking word about it. Especially not to America or France, not after the stunt they pulled on him yesterday. He had to lie low now, act normal. Not too normal, but—recovering.

He took advantage of the break for lunch to phone up Parliament and ask what the absolute shitting Hell was going on, albeit with far more refrained, polite phrasing. The bloke over the phone kindly informed him that nothing was amiss. Nothing glaring, at least. The fact that England was asking obviously raised some suspicions and he found himself on the defensive again; warding off questions about his current state of health. He managed to fork the blame on the weather, since it had been a rather hot and miserable summer, and assure the man that he would call back if anything changed. Well, brilliant. That had gotten him fuck all in the way of information.

The meeting rattled on without anything all that eventful. He didn’t have any talks scheduled today, so he busied himself with his notes and trying not to look like he was hearing things. By the time he made his way upstairs to slip into a change of clothes back at his hotel room, he stood in the lift cradling his head with a spare hand. For whatever reason, his headache had decided to crank the pain up to about as bad as it had been yesterday. _Fuck._ There was no way he was going to be sick in the lift, especially since he wasn’t—

“England.”

“Huh?” Oh, God, when had he sank to his knees, hand gripping the handle until he felt the metal start to bend beneath it? “Y-yes?”

“You are on the floor.”

“Yeah, say what you see,” England grumbled under his breath and a low chuckle radiated from beside him. Here he was, a reserved, dignified man, on his knees, clutching his head, having some sort of mini-breakdown. It was a bit funny. A snort slipped past his lips before he thought to catch himself, because excuse him, sorry? That wasn’t funny in the _slightest!_ It was humiliating!

Fingers curled around his upper arm and hoisted him back up with ease. The floor swayed underneath his feet and he clutched at anything to steady himself, which turned out to be the scarf Russia had wrapped around his neck.

The taller man laughed and, for whatever unexplainable reason, England was compelled to laugh along with him. God, he was losing it, wasn’t he? “So drunk,” Russia stated it like it was fact, bemusement dancing behind his eyes, as he lifted a hand to hover in front of his face, “How many fingers?”

“Wh,” He stared at the two fingers presented to him with no small amount of confusion. Honestly, England was gone. He had absolutely no idea what was happening around him. All he knew was that he was in some serious pain. “I’m going to—”

The rest of the warning didn’t need to be said. Amusement fell from the other man’s face faster than he thought physically possible. There was no time to ponder over it further, as in the next second, he was emptying his stomach, partially over that nice scarf, and mostly over the floor as he was spun around by hasty hands.

A string of angry Russian followed suit, lamenting over the state of his scarf, while he held England at arm’s length as he retched until he had nothing left in him. It took a moment, a dry-heave or two, and Russia turned him back around. “Everyone smuggles hard liquor into the meetings, _Angliya._ Do not go giving us all away acting stupid.”

“I’m not acting…stupid,” a weary blink accompanied his dragging words, “I mean. I’m not…I haven’t been…drinking—”

“Of course not,” Russia patted his shoulder harder than absolutely necessary, obviously not buying it, as the lift let out a _ding_ to announce their floor, “Back to room now, yes? Come.”

A strong arm wrapped around his waist and tugged him along the hall, each side lined with doors but otherwise empty. England had enough awareness to sputter out his room number as they got close. Reaching into his pockets with trembling, pale fingers, he pulled out his key card, only to drop it before Russia had a chance to snatch it off him.

Hmm, perhaps he wasn’t drunk after all. He looked pale.

What? He knew that. He was ill.

Russia reached down while keeping him supported and his nose ended up buried in the hair at the back of the taller man’s neck. God, this was pathetic. It took no time for him to retrieve the key card, right himself, and slide it a few times until a bright green light winked at them. He wrenched the door open with a spare hand and the both of them waited in the threshold, not moving.

“Can you walk?”

His eyes flicked down to his feet. Russia was giving him the option here to salvage some bit of his pride—as much as could be salvaged after falling over, being sick, and having to be supported on the short walk to his hotel room.

“Yes,” England breathed, his tone left little room for backing out, “Cheers. Sorry about the—your scarf.” His hand reached out to grab the doorframe once the other man stepped back and, for whatever reason, England knew the apology was acknowledged, even though he couldn’t see a nod or anything while his back was to him.

Once he made it past the door with jelly legs, Russia pulled the door shut. As soon as he heard heavy footsteps making their way back down the hall, England pressed his head against plaster and let out a long breath. That was, quite possibly, the most embarrassing and God awful situation he could have put himself through. Here he was, thinking yesterday would be the worst of it. Oh, no, today had to go and step it up!

And, great, _now_ his headache was easing off again, right after he had made an arse of himself. Fucking brilliant.

A drink would be lovely right about now, something to keep him from wallowing in his dreadful embarrassment and take the edge off. Perhaps he should phone America, see what he was up to? Go on a cheeky pub crawl?

Right, yeah. He was ill. Alcohol was probably the last thing he needed. Gritting his teeth, England kicked his briefcase in the vague direction of the bed and wrestled his phone out from his pocket to blink blearily at the screen. No missed calls or texts. He was a popular one today, eh?

He eyed the bed from the corner of his vision. Perhaps it would be best if he just took it easy.

Yeah. Have a lie down for a bit.

England had toiled over slowly peeling off his shoes, tie, suit jacket, trousers, all that rubbish and slipped underneath the duvet to have a kip for an hour or so; trapping all that warmth as he bundled the blanket around his still-trembling form.

When he finally found a spot he was comfortable in and let his eyes fall shut, his phone went off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter done! I'm having a lot of fun messing around with how the telepathy works/affects England this time around. My biggest issue with the original version of this story was pacing so I'm hoping this is slowing things down a bit and giving characters time to breathe (crossing my fingers)!
> 
> If there are any typos or grammatical errors, please let me know, I have a tendency to mix up "on" and "one" and shit like that. I edited it a few times, but I wouldn't be surprised if I missed something. And, of course, any and all constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I should be finishing up with the next chapter by the end of the week!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely readers! The second chapter is here after much delay. I wanted to post it about a week after the first chapter, but it ended up really kicking me in the ass. I had to erase and reimagine a good section of the chapter after I realised it read way too forced, which sapped a lot of my inspiration after I went back to the drawing board. But, finally, it's here and I'm quite pleased with how it turned out!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think! Feedback on pacing, grammar, and characterisation is always very, very welcome! Enjoy!
> 
> WARNING: There is not much in this chapter other than swearing, smoking, and some physical violence. Tread carefully if that's not your thing!

There were moments in his long, long life where England wished his glare had the ability to physically melt the object of his ire.

Now was one of those moments.

Unfortunately, God had decided to stick with His past decisions to _not_ grant him with such an ability and his phone, perched precariously on the nightstand, carried on ringing, unabated. He even waited for it to go to voicemail, hoping whatever prick was calling would give up on the prospect and he could get some shut-eye. It was too much to hope for. After three consecutive rings, England had had enough and was unsurprised to see America’s contact name flash across the screen after he fumbled to grab the blasted device.

Swiping his thumb over it, he had every intention on telling him off, but the audio that met his ear was loud and booming and static-y as the tiny speaker struggled to do its job. “Hello?” England asked, forgetting his snappy response in favour of a semi-confused greeting.

A crackling, garbled, but familiar voice burst into his earhole and he winced, decidedly holding his phone a few inches away to spare himself further damage. _“Hey, hey, hey! It’s England! I mean, Arthur! Hey!”_

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s America,” he replied in a tone that both oozed sarcasm and a distinct lack of enthusiasm all at once, “I mean Alfred.”

 _“Ha, ha, ha! You’re so funny!”_ Came the chipper response that hadn’t lost any of its spark in spite of his dry reply.

England lifted his spare hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not even a quarter past five. Are you pissed?”

_“Wh—no, man! I’m having an awesome time right now. Matthew just did the craziest shit—”_

“Drunk, Alfred. Are you drunk.”

_“Oh! Ha, ha, yeah. I’m fucked up.”_

“Lovely. I’m ending the call.”

 _“No, dude, wait! Don’t-hang-up-I’ll-just-keep-calling-pfft!”_ He was surprised America managed to get a breath in there. He wasn’t entirely sure that he did. England, gracious as always, gave him two seconds. One— _“Listen. I found the sickest club a walk away from the hotel and you should totally join us—oh, shit, uh…speaking of…are you still sick?”_

“‘Us’?” He knew Canada was included, obviously, but, knowing the man on the other end of the call, he wouldn’t be surprised if he invited the entire bloody conference! “And, no, I’m not ill. Well. I’m feeling better.”

 _“Holy shit, I knew that fucker was lying,”_ America hissed rapidly under his breath, it was the quietest thing he had said the entire span of their conversation, _“‘Us’ as in, like, me and Matthew and Kiku aaand some others. A couple others. Gilbert. Ivan. Uh…”_

England pressed his lips together to form a thin, tense line. As much as a prospect of a drink had tempted him before he decided to lay down in bed, he didn’t fancy the deafening, crowded atmosphere of a nightclub. Especially not while sporting a headache and possibly losing his mind. “I don’t think so, I’m—”

 _“Sick?”_ The other man’s tone shifted to a nasally rendition of his accent. _“‘Poorly’?”_

Oh, that _cheeky little_ —

“No.”

_“C’mon, man, don’t be such a boring asshole. Stop playing Go-Fish-for-One in your hotel room and have some fun for once. I got VIP passes!”_

“VIP passes for a club you just-so-happened to come across today?”

 _“Hey, I never said it was today,”_ now he was definitely being cheeky with him, _“Pleease? It’s not the same without my best friend here!”_

Oh, now that was cheating. He wasn’t allowed to pull the best friend card.

“No.”

_“Okay, great! I’ll text you the address. See you in five, my dude!”_

There was some fumbling, followed by a _chirp_ from his phone, and the call came to an abrupt end. A frown tugged at the corners of his lips. Insufferable bastard. But, sure enough, not thirty seconds later, a text containing the address popped up with a winking face emoji tacked on at the end. In spite of himself, it dragged a small, wry smile out of him.

He really shouldn’t drink.

He _really_ shouldn’t.

 

***

 

The phone call had only given him a taste of how potentially ear-drum-shattering the music the nightclub sported.  On top of that, his headache returned with a vengeance—to spite him. Or perhaps the music was truly to blame for that. It didn’t matter. The copious amounts of alcohol he ingested brought it down to an easily-ignored, numbed sensation at the back of his brain, thankfully.

Of course, when America had said ‘a couple others,’ his perception of that qualifying amount was clearly different from his own, because there were a least twenty-odd nations milling about the place. He hadn’t expected a calm, relaxing atmosphere, obviously, but the blaring music that caused the floor beneath his feet to pulse and shudder hardly allowed for conversation. Really, the only person he heard over it all was America shouting from time to time.

Without chit-chat being a practical option, it left only two activities available: to drink and to dance. The throng of people all seemed to be going with the whole ‘put your hands in the air and jump and yell and flail about the place’ tactic. Unfortunately, England’s strength was in more refined, structured dances like a waltz, so he awkwardly swayed from side-to-side because it seemed the least-risky.

That was his tactic, at least, until America plowed his way over to him with a tray full of shots and ordered him to down them all with him. Apparently watching him was a painful thing to witness and he had to loosen up. Said he looked like an albatross trying to dance—awkward and forced. Well, all right, then. No need for that.

Thanks to one shot too many, England fell off the precipice of being buzzed into being very solidly drunk. After sticking close to America and taking the piss out of each other’s uncoordinated dancing, he backed up into a body and whirled around to shout an apology, only to come face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see after their embarrassing encounter earlier today—Russia.

However, he was drunk and when he glanced over his shoulder, his self-proclaimed hero had disappeared. No easy way out. “Ivan! Sorry!” He shouted, only to be interrupted as some impatient bloke and his girlfriend slipped in between the both of them. He caught the gist of what Russia said—asking if he needed help walking again, the cheek—while he glared at their backs before they, too, were swallowed up by the crowd.

“I don’t. I can walk jus’ fine this time, thanks!” England replied, ignoring the fact that bumping into Russia did little to support his argument.

The taller man watched him with an unreadable expression as people whooped and danced all about them. “What are you talking about?”

He wasn’t keen on bringing up the embarrassing event from earlier and he swallowed a huff that threatened to boil over. He wasn’t to the point of plastered to up and abandon the conversation, not willingly. “You know…earlier!” He was unwilling to elaborate any further. If the other man feigned ignorance, then he had his own permission to duck out of the conversation.

Instead, his eyes squinted down at him. Under more sober circumstances, England would’ve internally squirmed under such a look, especially coming from a man like Russia. For a moment, they only had the raucous noise of the nightclub between them. “Ah. How could I forget?” A thinly-stretched smile crawled across his face and he was left feeling cold and uneasy.

He smothered any more words with his drink, but he didn’t have to bother in the end. America practically sprang out of the throng of people with another tray full of precariously-placed shots. The other man offered Russia a glance that seemed unwelcome at first, until it morphed into something more mischievous.

“Hey, guys, think you can knock these bad boys back?” He shouted far louder than necessary. England wouldn’t be surprised if this was his natural habitat: loud and obnoxious, with the only way to be heard was to be more loud and obnoxious than the music. “It’s not a party unless I see both of you on your ass!”

“What, you fancy a repeat of th’last time?” England wondered tersely; his eyes scanning over the tray of twinkling shot glasses, all lined up and slightly spilled from the journey through the energetic crowd. America didn’t have to answer. His lopsided, shit-eating grin was enough. He most definitely did.

“Last time?”

He could practically _feel_ the curiosity in Russia’s voice and his expression grew slightly sour as America immediately sprung into recounting the story. “Oh, dude, Artie and I hit like twelve pubs in a row a couple months back. It was crazy. Like three hours in, he got all gay and nostalgic, I thought he was gonna cry for a sec—”

He let out a series of very purposely-loud coughs in an attempt to cover up that last bit. Come on! No one needed to hear that, least of all _Russia,_ and whoever was within range to hear him shouting it. Fucking Hell!

America didn’t skip a beat, “And we got so fucked up that Artie tried to fight a streetlamp after I said it called him names. Punched it so hard, he sent it flying, ha, ha! Then we ended up jumping a fence into some abandoned warehouse and got arrested for trespassing. It was awesome.”

“I would hardly call it that,” England retorted, muttering into the rim of his glass.

It actually had been a lot of fun. The not-so-fun part had come later when Parliament questioned him over it like some reprimanded school boy and not a two-bloody-thousand-year-old man. As if he wasn’t capable of doing whatever he damn well pleased, permission or no!

“Dude, c’mon, it was fucking great and you know it,” his dismissive hand wave settled the matter; lifting up the tray with urgency, “C’mon, guys! Don’t be chicken! Shots, shots, shots!”

A little snort flew past his lips. If America was going to try to play into his competitive streak, he wasn’t going to have much luck. He didn’t fancy dying tonight.

That was, until a very driven and very healthy sense of confidence washed over him that left him scrabbling to make sense of his thoughts; urging him forward. Oh, he was going to win this, for sure. Why even hesitate? Setting down his half-empty drink on a nearby table, he reached over with sudden vigour and—oh, his fingers smacked right into Russia’s as they chose the same shot glass.

He and Russia shared a look and that drive within him tripled, if possible, as he reached for a different glass this time. They managed to shave off three shots—America making comments and egging them on all the way—before England started to feel the effects. He licked his lips and hesitated in his grip around the fourth.

“Can we call winner early?” Russia wondered idly.

England shot him a glare, “You seem rather confident.”

“I am. You cannot hold your liquor. Not compared to me.”

“Oh?” Except he was absolutely correct. England had a higher alcohol tolerance than a human, for sure, but he certainly wasn’t going to drink _Russia_ under the table. What the Hell had he been thinking? Why did he put himself up to this? Now his pride was on the line and he had to show this arsehole up. Or, at least, make a valiant attempt. “I have’uh tendency to surprise people,” he retorted, kicking back his fourth shot without showing the bastard anymore hesitation, stubborn as ever.

Pfft. He wasn’t going to last long at all, was he?

Russia matched his movements easily. All that confidence from before had deserted him, but if England was good at anything, it was hunkering down and enduring something stupid that he had gotten himself into. He managed about two and a half more shots before the taller man claimed victory. He was a real smug little prick about it as well. ‘I told you so’ was on the tip of his lips the entire time he and America helped him into a chair, he could tell.

“Do not be sore loser,” Russia offered him with a pat on the head that was hardly soothing and far more condescending, “At least you have not vomited on me this time.”

England only spared him a glare that was rather difficult to pull off with the nightclub constantly spinning underneath his feet, “Yeah, wha’ever.”

America laughed, but ended up cutting himself off. “Hey, wait, I thought you were making shit up about that. Artie! What the hell, man? You said you were fine!” Hands were on his forehead and he groaned. Damn it, not this shit again.

“He is ill? I thought he was drunk.”

“No, man, he was messed up yesterday. He’s got dementia or something ‘cause he’s so fucking old. You were there at the meeting!”

“Why ask him to come to club, then?”

“He said he was fine!” America snapped back at him over his shoulder as he waved away England’s badly-coordinated attempts to bat him off, “Don’t go fucking blaming me, okay? I’m not the one who’s chill with lying to their best friend’s face for no reason.”

Oh, brilliant. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this for a good, long while. “It wasn’t’uh lie, I am feelin’ better since,” England reiterated for perhaps the hundredth time in the past two days. It certainly felt like the hundredth time.

“Bull _shit_ you’re feeling better,” he retorted, “C’mon, get up. I’m callin’ a cab so we can get you back to the hotel.” America wasted no time in curling his hands underneath both of his armpits to hoist him up, but England was having none of it. He struggled. He was hardly in the position for a proper fight, but he wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

“Fuck off! _Fuck off!_ I told you I’m fine!” He writhed and twisted to no avail as he shouted, not caring if the entire bloody nightclub heard him for once. “Goddamn it, would you jus’ leave me _alone?”_

 _Oof._ He was unceremoniously dropped, hard, back into his chair and he flailed to catch his balance. “Fine!” America bellowed right back, holding up his hands, “I’m tired of this ‘woe is me’ wounded warrior shit! If you don’t want my help, then—you can find your own fucking way home, ‘cause I’m done!”

England glowered at him as he stormed off. Good riddance. If he was going to throw a strop over the whole thing when he was _telling him_ he was fine, then he didn’t want any part of it, anyway. He swallowed down a huff and a curse. It took a dark chuckle to his left for him to remember that Russia was still hanging about.

“It is like watching television with you two.”

“Yeah, well, ‘e started it,” England muttered and crossed his arms; sinking further into his seat.

Russia watched him sulk with glimmering eyes. “Did he?”

“You can fuck off too.”

The burst of laughter caught him off-guard and he tensed his shoulders, before a snicker unwittingly clawed itself from his throat. No, no! He was angry. England forced a frown to etch itself back onto his face.

“What is your plan now?”

His nostrils flared as he gave that question a bit of deliberation. Honestly, he wasn’t sure. Walking in a straight line was an impossible task at the moment and America returning to help him out wasn’t something he could count on, not until he cooled off. He wasn’t about to allow Russia to help him after the earlier fiasco, so that was out of the question. Like most moments in his long, long life, it all came down to one person: himself.

“Dunno, jus’ sit here ’til I sober up, I guess.”

“This is preferable to having a friend take you back to hotel?”

He shot Russia a pointed look. The bastard was messing with him, wasn’t he? Well, he wasn’t going to satisfy him with a flowery answer. “Yes.”

“Interesting.”

What he meant by that, Russia didn’t care to elaborate further, although he had a vague feeling lingering in the back of his head that seemed to have some idea. Curiosity, maybe. Wanting to get a reaction out of him, for sure. It didn’t matter, though, as when he rubbed at his eyes and slumped back in his chair, by the time he opened them again, the other nation had gone.

For a good hour and a half, his plan chugged along without interruption. He sat at a table, occasionally chatting with someone who cared to stop by and see how he was doing, until he had sobered up well enough to walk—or until America returned, which he didn’t. He wasn’t sure he wanted him to. Annoyance still coursed through him over their little spat—confrontation and resolution could wait for tomorrow.

For now, he had to get out of here.

Hailing a taxi was no small feat in the midst of the constant hustle and bustle of New York City and he became so fed up with it that he forewent driving back to the hotel entirely. Walking, then. It was about a twenty minute journey on foot. He could manage that. Not too bad, right?

Not right. At some point he had let himself wander in his buzzed state of mind and ended up before a bridge arching over dark, open water with strong steel arms. The traffic still clustered the streets, but the pedestrians had become sparse with a lack of shops and bars as it bled into residential apartments. He pulled out his phone to check where he had ended up. Relief washed over him as it confirmed he hadn’t gone too far off-course, only added about five minutes to his walk, really.

Falling back into his own thoughts, he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and carried on. It took another ten minutes for him to come to a slow, realising halt that he was lost…again. In fact, he seemed to have been inadvertently tailing the man ahead of him, who shot him a suspicious, nervous glance over his shoulder before speed-walking with purpose down the pavement. Well, that was a bit awkward. Bloke probably took him for a serial killer or something.

His bleary eyes blinked up at the night sky before scanning the street ahead of him. It was dark and sparse; only highlighted by the occasional dim streetlight or open window. An uncomfortable, clawing feeling nestled itself into his chest as that whispering from yesterday flickered just outside the range of his hearing. He kept looking, eyes darting about, for something or some _one,_ but he wasn’t quite sure for _what_ until—

“Do _you_ know where you are going?” Came a light, almost playful, voice as the _click_ of a lighter reached his ears, “Because it does not look like it.”

England whirled around with no small amount of panic. He had already been on edge, anyway, even though it should have hardly surprised him seeing Russia leaning against the brick wall of a rubbish-filled alleyway; calculating eyes on him, puffing away at a cigarette.

His skin crawled, but he retorted anyway, with only the smallest hint of uncertainty in his voice, “You’re following me.”

Now, the other man gave no indication one way or the other, he didn’t smile or frown, his expression didn’t shift away from a neutral one, but a resounding _yes_ filled his ears all the same. He hadn’t even uttered a single word. It was unnerving.

“You make it too easy,” Russia admitted with a shrug, “I have heard—‘SAS, best in world,’ but you—” His eyes looked him up and down as he trailed off, unimpressed.

His eyes were practically daggers. “Forgive _me_ for not expectin’tuh be followed for no good reason,” he snapped, but it brought up a good point—why _was_ he following him? “Did Alfred put you up t’this, then?”

The taller man’s eyes narrowed, “You are surprisingly perceptive when you are drunk and stupid.”

 _Stupid?_ He gritted his teeth. In all honesty, he didn’t know what caused him to leap to that conclusion, it just made sense—in spite of the fact that it seemed unlikely that Russia would do anything for America, at least on the surface. “An’ you’re _unsurprisingly_ an annoying arse’ole,” England retorted; his hands clawing for fistfuls of air at his sides as his anger washed over him with ease.

A chuckle rumbled from the other man’s throat and a small, genuine smile flashed; one that had his own lips twitching to match it before he got ahold of himself. “You are fun like this,” his eyes glimmered dangerously, “I understand why America invited you to club.”

“Yeah an’ fat lot’uh good it did me,” he hissed right back, squaring his shoulders and turning around to carry on down the street. Russia was only trying to get under his skin—and it was working, much to his irritation. Fuck him, honestly.

Russia blew smoke at his retreating back. “Do not go far,” his warning brushed past his ear, “I have already called cab.”

“Sod off.”

The laughter that bombarded his back only managed to anger him further.

 

***

 

It didn’t matter how far down the road his feet had taken him, as the taxi rolled up beside him with the other nation’s head poking out the back window, calling him over. He even ignored him for a good twenty feet; stubbornly looking ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. It did little to dissuade Russia, or the driver, apparently, until his temper got the best of him and he snapped _“what do you want?!”_

He ended up swallowing his pride when Russia informed him that, one, he was walking in the wrong direction, two, it would take over a half-hour to walk back to the hotel now, and, three, it was well past midnight.

So now he sat in the back with the bastard himself, who stunk of cigarette smoke and alcohol—although, on the latter, England was sure he wasn’t much better off himself—tapping his knee hurriedly, as if it would urge the car to go faster. The silence was one of the more awkward ones he had the pleasure to have to endure.

There was a _clink_ beside him. He watched Russia light another cigarette from the corner of his eye after cracking open the window. A long trail of smoke wafted from his lips; swirling up to the roof of the car before being drawn out. He wrinkled his nose.

“Hey, no smoking in here, buddy,” came the gruff, haggard voice of the taxi driver.

Russia paid him little heed and held out the pack to offer England. His lips parted for a moment as he stared at it. A struggle of manners fought within him—one option aggravated their driver and the other option refused a man who could quite possibly crush his head in one hand.

“Hey, asshole, you deaf?”

“No English,” Russia said, purposefully thickening his accent to support the lie.

A well of amusement overflowed within him, even though it shouldn’t, really. The poor bloke was only doing his job. As soon as the taller man made note of his barely-withheld, bitten-back smirk, a bemused smile pulled at his lips and they shared a moment of mutual entertainment at their driver’s expense.

Well, bollocks to it, then. “Cheers, Ivan,” he opted; pulling a cigarette from the pack and borrowing his lighter. It had been a while since he last smoked. He usually only did it when he was particularly stressed out. Perhaps the fight with America and the mentally-exhausting past few days were the deciding factor behind his hand.

“You are welcome, Arthur,” he replied in perfectly-pronounced English and England had to fight the burst of laughter that clawed its way to his throat as he saw their driver give the rearview mirror an infuriated double-take.

 

***

 

They made it back to the hotel without much of a fuss. The taxi driver ended up charging them extra for smoking in his car and he had never seen Russia move so fast; leaving him to cough up a good-sized portion of his American currency, much to his irritation.

However, getting back to his hotel room had its own merits. As England sobered up on the drive over, his headache only became more and more difficult to ignore. It left him irritable, but mostly ready and willing to collapse into bed as soon as possible.

That was exactly what he did.

Or, that had been his plan. Once again, he curled up into the duvet with every intention of passing out for the rest of the night when his phone went off. He tensed and glared at it from his position on the bed. It wasn’t a call, at least, probably a text, then. That could wait for tomorrow, surely?

England let his eyes fall shut. For an hour or so, he tossed and turned; rubbing at his forehead in a vain attempt to relieve the pounding and the pain, to no avail. Finally, a distraction from it seemed the best option and he _did_ end up checking his phone.

His eyes blinked blearily at the screen.

[ SMS: America ] Your a dick

He pursed his lips. That message had actually been sent on the drive back to the hotel and he hadn’t known how to respond then, either. He thumbed out of the conversation without adding anything to it. 

The latest text just so happened to be from France. A groan built in his throat prematurely, before his eyes even skirted over its contents.

[ SMS: France ] Comment ça va? Better?

Of course he was asking over him. It was better than a barrage of grammatically-incorrect insults, he supposed, although it did get him thinking about the headache splitting his forehead open again. He hastily typed a reply before getting up to knock back some pain killers, bollocks to the potential alcohol-medicine complications.

[ SMS: England ] Fine  
[ SMS: England ] Still got a headache but it’s not as bad as it was yesterday

That much was true. Granted, this headache had really kicked his arse these past two days, but it was starting to let up, slowly but surely, with little punctuations of intensity here and there. It was the whispering that bothered him the most. As he washed down the painkillers with a bottle of water, his phone chimed at him again.

[ SMS: France ] Have you hit your head recently?  
[ SMS: England ] Not that I’m aware  
[ SMS: England ] What are you even doing up anyway it’s nearly one in the morning  
[ SMS: England ] I’m trying to sleep  
[ SMS: France ] You’re the one answering, mon ami. ;-)

He let out a huff and settled back into bed; wrapping the duvet around himself in a tight cocoon. After a few minutes of dead air, France added:

[ SMS: France ] You should apologise to Alfred. As much of a misery you are to be around, you are being much worse than usual. Ill or no.

He glared at the screen, not bothering to untangle his hands to answer. He didn’t need to, apparently, as the little dancing typing icon only paused a moment more carrying on.

[ SMS: France ] Besides, when he is angry at you, you know how he overeats. If I have to hear more complaining while flecks of food fly from his mouth, I might become ill myself from trying to keep the disgust off my face.  
[ SMS: France ] Zut alors! I am not helping my case. That will compel you to do the opposite, non?

A bemused smile pulled at the corners of his lips from his position, bundled up in his duvet. It most certainly was _not_ helping the other man’s case.

[ SMS: France ] Nevermind, just think about it, you stubborn ass.  
[ SMS: France ] Bonne nuit!!

Hm. A collective sigh built in his chest. The bastard did have a point, as much as it loathed him to admit it. England was well aware he had to talk to America sooner rather than later, but in the middle of the night, when the wound was still fresh, was probably not the time for it.

With that thought knocking about his head, he curled further into the warmth of the duvet, leaving his phone there on the mattress beside him, as sleep finally enveloped him.

Dreams were usually something he paid little heed to, unless they became nightmarish; clawing, twisting his thoughts or using old memories against him. Initially, England grew wary, shifting about in bed, as the taste of mud crawled over his tongue. He clenched his eyes shut, expecting the rattling of gunfire, the crack of grenades, the cries of soldiers, but only the jeers of young children greeted him instead.

Their words were unintelligible, but it was easy to discern what they said and it was hardly polite. Throwing rocks, slinging mud, egging him on, calling him coward, thick-headed, even. Indignation flared up and spurred him on. He looked up through narrowed eyes as his fingers curled into the wet earth to wrench himself back onto his feet. Some part of him knew the way this would end. He would fight back, he would hit harder than necessary to drive them off, a bit too hard—

The boy’s face crumbled like wet clay to his fist as a chorus of gasps and screams sprouted up around him. They scattered like rabbits; chasing the dirt road down the hill to the village where they met the strong arms of their mothers and the warm hearth of their homes. The boy whose face he had broken drew into a ball of tangled limbs as he fell into hot, ugly tears before he spat curses at his feet and ran away, too.

A calmness rolled over him; enveloping him like a blanket and warding off the light chill in the air. It was all so familiar—except it wasn’t. That realisation alone was enough to jerk him back awake, groggy and confused, before England flopped over onto his other side—cheek pressing his phone into the mattress—and fell asleep once more without another thought to spare the odd dream.

The rest of the night chugged along uninterrupted. In fact, he was out like a light and overslept. England rushed to the early morning conference in order to avoid being late to it. He sported a lovely hangover. Or perhaps that was his now-regular headache, he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

What worried him most was that that whispering had become bolder as he sat there at the conference table, scratching away at his notes. It was still incredibly difficult to discern _what_ it was saying, but it was louder, clearer, and sometimes he caught a stray feeling or a slight dose of comprehension, even with the words all muddled. He rubbed at his ear, playing it off like an itch, while inside England was a wildfire of nerves.

Perhaps he should just go to hospital—

Not in New York, _obviously._ He refused to pay for travel insurance. Why bother when he could heal on his own well enough, right? He would have to go once he got home, manage the madness until then. A frown wormed its way onto his lips. The last thing he fancied doing was admit to the fact that he could very well be losing his mind. Imagine Parliament learning that, he wouldn’t hear the bloody end of it! There would be no escape from the nagging.

Besides, what if it _was_ nation-related? It was something he hadn’t experienced before, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. Economic downturns left him ill, but not like this. Weak, shaky, a sinus infection, a fever—he had none of that, just a God awful headache and endless whispering.

“Are you okay, Arthur?”

His eyes snapped over to the man next to him and let go of his own ear; realising he had been rubbing it raw in a futile attempt to quiet the noise in his head. God, he even _sounded_ mental, phrasing it like that! “Yes, I’m fine,” he answered automatically; short, a bit snappy. Honestly, he had grown tired of the question. It wasn't like he had a plethora of patience regarding it under normal circumstances, either.

He saw Canada visibly shrink away from the venom in his voice. It brought guilt clawing up to badger at him for being rude and he relented. “Sorry, I had rubbish sleep last night,” England assured him; white lie falling easily off his tongue, “I am fine, though.”

The bespectacled man gave him a small, unconvinced nod. For a moment, suspicion welled up within him, as he wouldn’t put it past America and France informing him of his current state—the partially-complete version they had, at least. “Heh, yeah, you hungover too?” It was then that England bothered to notice the tired look to the younger nation’s eyes. That was right. Canada had been at the nightclub with them last night.

He nodded into his hand in confirmation; managing to dredge up a wry smile. The other man gave him a knowing look, coupled with his own matching smile, before turning his attention back to the current presentation. That was that. No more pushing or prodding, thank God. _Some_ people had a sense of common courtesy.

England made sure that he was one of the last of the nations to filter out of the conference room later that day, simply to give himself some sense of privacy before heading back to his hotel room. Briefcase in hand, he turned a corner, only to be met with a cross-armed, impatient America; tapping his foot against the wooden floor as he sat at one of the row of waiting chairs, presumably waiting for him. Really, the only way he could have made it more obvious was if he had a sign that said ‘hello, time to apologize!’ In fact, it was a surprise there wasn’t one.

An uncomfortable feeling built in his chest; teeth gnashing at the inside of his cheek as his fingers flexed nervously against the handle of his briefcase. It was…a bit early for apologies, wasn’t it?

“Hey,” America greeted, but it was hardly warm or welcoming.

He cleared his throat before returning it. “Hello,” England said, his greeting far less biting and far more uncertain, “Waiting ‘round for someone?”

Their eyes clashed and no words had to be exchanged. He cleared his throat again, itching at the back of his neck, before moving to sit next to the other man. The silence was unbearable. America’s posture was tensed, his demeanour cold, not moving a muscle.

After a minute or so, the younger nation let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Okay, then. I’ll start, I guess, since you’re too pussy”—he visibly bristled at that—“why did you lie, man?”

“Uh—”

America cut him off. “Like, I get that you’re a private sorta dude and you have to make everyone else guess at how you’re feeling about simple shit, but seriously? Like, you made _me_ look like a huge asshole for dragging my sick friend to a club when you could’ve just said you weren’t feelin’ it!”

“Now hold on a minute,” he retorted, straightening up in his seat and shooting him a pointed glare, “I _did_ refuse, Alfred. You—”

“Dude, you _always_ say no to everything, even if you want it!”

“Not always!” All right, so maybe he had a tendency to refuse something when initially asked, but it was _not_ all the time! “Besides, if I had told you, you wouldn’t’ve left me well enough alone, anyway.”

“Oh, yeah, forgive me for being a concerned fucking friend,” came the sarcastic growl as he rolled his eyes, “You know what you remind me of, England?”

“What?” He narrowed his eyes; practically daring him to continue.

“You’re like a toddler in a grocery store who’s yelling and screaming when he’s told he can’t get something he wants, so he goes limp and has to be dragged out. And it inconveniences _everyone.”_

His blood practically boiled. “Well, then,” England stood, ripping his briefcase off the empty chair beside him and sneering, “I’ll stop being an inconvenience to you, shall I?” He whipped around with every intention to stalking off down the hall.

“Yeah, go ahead, hang out with someone else and take them for granted.”

There was a falter in his step where everything in him wanted to turn around and scream bloody murder. Unfortunately, the words cut a bit too deep and he found himself fighting off pain instead of anger.

If that was what America wanted, then _fine._

His feet kept him going; leaving the other man to stew in the aftermath. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease, didn’t relent, until he stood in the middle of his hotel room; trying his best to avoid the temptation to break something he would inevitably have to pay to replace. Instead, he settled for slamming his briefcase against the annoyingly soft, pliable mattress.

Shambles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, there we go! Got a bit heavy at the end, there. I promise England isn't usually this grumpy, but that headache and all the drama around it really isn't helping matters. ;)
> 
> Hope you guys liked it!


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